


Finnegan, Begin Again

by TheWatcherObserves



Category: Death in Paradise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 13:52:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4394405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWatcherObserves/pseuds/TheWatcherObserves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An offer to return to France to lead the NPF's top interdiction group leaves Camille uncertain: can she leave the last place she shared with Richard Poole?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Saint Marie

**Author's Note:**

> Those who've read my other DIP works know they were written in a single "universe" as it were, where the stories themselves are (mostly) consistent with Seasons 1 and 2 and where the fictional lives are (often) consistent across my stories.  
> With the decision to let Richard Poole, Camille Bordey and Fidel Best leave the show as characters, I'm writing in a new "uni", one where these wonderful characters now have a world away from Saint Marie to play in.  
> It's _still_ fiction - not fact, right?

“…you’d be doing us a favor, actually. Hiring someone with your record of success with our budgets… well, let’s say that closing this deal would get me raised a grade.”

 

Normally a compliment that blatant from someone that handsome would ensure continued interest but the subject had long taken the listener's attention away. Not even a curious gaze came the speaker’s way.

 

“… I been clear? Will you consider the offer? The department lead is still tender from losing you. Cost him a grade or two.”

 

Attention partially — and courtesy fully — returned, his distracted listener replied in a manner guaranteed to leave the nerves of the young emissary on edge in the stifling heat.

 

“I’m flattered and overwhelmed actually. I’d like time to think it over. Is that okay?”

 

Mopping a soggy neck with a hastily snatched disposable tissue, the youngster had to ad lib a response.

 

“Yes! Fine! I’ll… I’ll check in with my head when I get back to my hotel and see if they have a deadline.”

 

The difference in his continental French accent and her island version could be heard on every “L” and many “ITH” pronunciations.

 

“Merci. Dwayne! Could you take —”

 

Two quick finger snaps in his direction communicated the need for the stranger to repeat his name again.

 

“Jordain!”

“Jordain to the Royal Highlands?”

“On my way, DS. Come now!” Dwayne called out, snatching his cap and keys and rounding his desk for the door leading to the Rover faster than the young, sweating and nervous emissary thought possible two minutes ago.

“Until later, Detective Sergeant Bordey.”

“Yes…”

 

Camille’s thoughts had already left the present to consider the future and the past in tandem.

 

* * *

 

“Hello?” a decidedly public school voice spoke on the other end of the international call.

“Helen? It’s Camille.”

“It’s good to hear your voice again, dear. It’s been some time. Is everything okay? Your mother?”

“No-no. Maman is fine. I want your advice — I’ve been offered a managing detective’s job in the National Police Force. I would lead up the financial interdiction unit — the group that handles money movement, identity sales and human trafficking.”

“That’s wonderful! Are you considering it seriously? Have you spoken to your mother?”

 

The hidden inquiry traveled within the more visible request for the expected information.

 

“Humphries is a good detective — when he’s not tripping and falling all over our crime scene — but it’s not the same. I’m ready to…”

 

Helen Poole pretend to miss the sniff from the tropical end of the call.

 

“Something has to change...”

“I’m quite sure my role is to be objective but I agree. You’re capable of so much more, Camille. How ridiculous that they sent that clumsy oaf instead of promoting you. Richard told me you handled every case as well as he did. If the French services are brighter than our Met, then I say good riddance to the lot of them.”

 

Such a rousing endorsement led to tears. However reserved Richard’s parents might have been during his childhood, Helen never restrained herself when talking to Camille. 

 

“I won’t pretend I’m not happy to hear this. You’ll be a ferry ride away, for once. So what’s next?”

“I’m going to talk to my mother. Then I’ll decide.”

 

Goodbyes were made in French and a number exchanged. After a moment’s quiet contemplation about the enormity of the choice before her, Camille stowed her phone and left the station for La Kaz.

 

* * *

 

“Hello Fidel?”

“Camille??? Is something wrong?”

“No-no. I wanted to tell you —”

“— that you’re going to back France?” he chuckled back at her.

“Juliet?”

 

Camille considered how fast the information network operated on Saint Marie EXCEPT when a crime had been committed.

 

“No — Dwayne. Have you said ‘yes’?”

 

Her laughter cut off the sound on Camille’s end of the phone.

 

“No, but everybody thinks I should.”

“It’s time, Camille.”

“That’s Sergeant to you,” she chuckled.

“You’re ready. D.C.I. Poole would have promoted you.”

“You think I should go?”

“Juliet can help you pack, Commissaire Divisionnaire Bordey.”

“I’ll miss you terribly, especially Rosie and little Fidel.”

“Little Fidel won't be here for months. We’ll visit when I get my next promotion.”

 

Fidel’s work in the months since his transfer to Guadeloupe racked up an average of a commendation a month. Sergeant Best would soon be Detective Sergeant Best with a nice bump in pay.

 

“You have a place to stay when you come. Thank you.”

“Go. Before Catherine finds out last and poisons us all.”

 

Laughing in agreement, Camille sped up to a jog on her way to confess her intent to her mother.

 

* * *

 

“You’re leaving,” met Camille as she slid behind the service counter to kiss her mother.

“This island is too small,” Camille whinged as she took a stool at the bar. The table seats were more comfortable but Camille had no intention of broadcasting her possible resignation to the island from one of those chairs.

“Did you tell him?”

 

Catherine Bordey had a reputation for her no-nonsense interrogations — all conducted over savory treats exquisitely prepared.

 

“No…”

“Cami, he deserves to know your decision. You know how he feels about you.”

“He won’t want me to leave. It will make it hard on him… On both of us.”

“Talk to him. Tell him how you feel — for both of you.”

“Are you upset?”

“No, chou, no. I’m a mother; mothers worry. You will be taking deep cover assignments.”

“I will be the Chief —”

“I know you — and so does that idiot Etienne Navarre who let you go after getting Robert killed. You were not made to sit behind a desk, not like your ‘Richard’. So, I worry.”

“The salary is very good. I will fly you over; you never take a vacation.”

“I have a business to look after and nowhere I really wanted to go. And you are delaying; talk to him.”

 

The flush reddened her mocha-tinted skin. Embarrassment of the heterosexual type forced that reaction since her harrowing teenage dating behaviors.

 

“Love you, maman.”

“You have my blessing, Cami. Go. Start your new life.”

 

* * *

 

Flopping on the sofa in her flat placed Camille in the direct path of the air con, a concession and gift to Richard’s body thermostat. Richard’s shack leaked air like a sieve so she’d paid an exorbitant price for the appliance and its installation in her place then dressed for Iceland whenever they stayed at hers. But it worked — Richard made her chilled home his sanctuary.

 

Distracted by memories, she dialed the wrong number three successive times. 

 

Telling him she would once again change homes and lives rattled her. If Camille had half the courage she routinely called on to chase down perps, she’d have skyped.

 

Chilled air blowing through her tropical living space reminded her of Richard: her bed — sporting the new mattresses he’d insisted on the morning he awoke from a long night’s love-making unable to straighten up, the loose tea next to her ground coffee, his old personal laptop they’d split the cost of replacing and three of his dress shirts she wore around the house. 

 

Richard Poole got under her skin on their first official case together and took up residency in her heart.

 

She missed him with an unrelenting ache.

 

“You’re in?”

 

Mumbling on the other end echoed the playful chiding at her stupid question.

 

He informed her that he’d heard about “the offer”.

 

“I haven’t decided —”

 

— and he cut her off before she spoke the compassionate lie.

 

More buzzing from the tiny speaker vibrated his acknowledgement of the wonderful opportunity and her readiness for the next step.

 

Then the uncomfortable silence set in.

 

“You’ve been a good friend.”

 

She winced reflexively at the loud crash in the background — he’d tripped over his chair.

 

His muttered response covered for what he wanted to say, that he’d do anything to keep her close. Having made that mistake before, he stuttered out best wishes for her success.

 

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

 

Anyone standing near her in her empty flat would’ve clearly heard his resignation —

 

“ _He’s a hard act to follow…_ ”

 

and a sad, soft goodbye.

 

* * *

 

Over the next days Camille made more calls, said more “goodbyes” and “hellos” and prepared to leave her birthplace again.

 


	2. Calais, France

The last time she’d made this trip in business class she’d been Saint Marie’s representative to the identity theft international task force. The shock of her life occurred when a living, breathing Richard Poole alighted the stage to explain why he’d been murdered and how he’d been resurrected. 

 

His present whereabouts were unknown.

 

Today she relaxed on the small corporate commuter jet as it cruised towards Calais, her new duty station. As France’s busiest port and a main accessway to the UK, the city earned its reputation as a terminus for major criminal activity, not to mention its increasing attention as an entry point for illegal immigrants. Seemingly seconds after she’d finally drifted off the overhead speaker announced their approach at Calais-Dunkerque airport accompanied by the oft repeated instructions to “return” and “stow” the tray tables and carry-on luggage.

 

Not too many minutes later Division Chief Camille Bordey's Interpol credentials whisked her through international customs and on her way to the VIP transportation area. Navarre promised her he’d see to her transportation until her car, stored outside of Paris, could be picked up and delivered. She’d packed two weeks of essentials in her oversize carry-on and shipped a month of clothes, retrieved from cold storage, ahead. At her present rank she could stay in the temporary housing for a year but wouldn’t. Within hours of accepting the offer, she’d been in touch with contacts in Europe and would be moving into a lovely house within a 15-minute commute. The property agent would be by her temporary housing at 10 am tomorrow. 

 

When her name came through the airport’s public announcement system, Camille pivoted in the direction communicated by the voice and sped up. Initially she missed the handwritten sign, expecting her driver to use French and not English.

 

“Detective Sergeant Bordey!” she heard above the low-level din of executives and well-healed travelers.

 

The bag fell from her shoulder as she ran to meet him. No one in Calais knew her on sight — except this man.

 

“Richard!?”

 

Months of separation guaranteed his British reserve got crushed by her curvaceous body.

 

After a playful cuff to his chest, she corrected him for the umpteenth time.

 

“And it’s not ‘Detective’ —”

“I’m aware, Camille. I needed to get your attention quickly.”

“Thank you for that public display of affection.”

 

The “Poole scowl” failed to intimidate her after a kiss that had smoke coming out of her ears.

 

“I hope you don’t mind; I picked up your car. Catherine overnighted the keys.”

“I thought you were on assignment.”

 

Richard’s part-time agency before leaving Saint Marie — the Serious Organized Crime Agency — got absorbed into the newer and more ambiguously named National Crime Agency.

 

“We’ll talk about that. Let’s get you in the car. You’re luggage is at the lodging?”

 

She nodded, grinning as he opened the car door for her and strapped her into her Peugot 307 sedan. Thanks to Paris’ top-notch public transportation and Camille’s undercover assignments, her car barely had 30,000 km on it, even if the steering wheel was on the wrong side for her “partner”.

 

“We’ll pick it up. No need for two rooms, is there?”

“You’re sure mine wouldn’t be better?” she asked, hesitant to stay in smaller accommodations.  The National Police Force had booked her into a lovely two-story, two-bedroom townhouse with an en-suite.

“All taken care of. Just enjoy the ride.”

“Richard, are you sure you don’t want me to drive? You’re used to the wrong side of the road.”

 

His glower brought a contrite expression; she really wanted to keep the peace after his surprise.

 

“For this to work you have to trust me. Right? Here we are!”

 

Taking more care than required, Richard worked the car to the curb and placed the gear lever in “PARK”.

 

“You’re sure? We should stay here.”

“Absolutely not. I’ve not brought any clothes.”

“That makes things easier — doesn’t it, cher?”

 

A lopsided grin rose with the color in his cheeks.

 

“Give me your key and I’ll retrieve your luggage.”

 

Camille dug the key to the cute little place out of her purse and handed it over with a kiss to Richard, smiling at his old world chivalry.

 

“Merci, cher.”

“I suppose I shall have to improve my boarding school French.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Richard Poole?” Camille barked out in laughter.

 

Ignoring the jibe, Richard fumbled for the Peugot's door handle then exited the vehicle on what felt like the passenger side. Ducking quickly into and out of the house carrying two rather heavy bags, he grunted his way to the hatchback.

 

“Camille? Some assistance, please?”

“Oh!” she startled before pushing the boot release button in the glove box.

“Thank you. All done! Let’s get you settled.”

 

An easy 25-minute drive brought them past the city limits and into the adjacent suburbs where the countryside met them. A few turns later Richard took a stone driveway off of Chemin des Dunes and parked.

 

“Here we are!” he called out as he made his way to the rear of the car.

“Richard, this isn’t a hotel and I didn’t see a sign. Did you get lost? Where are your bags?”

“Already,” he strained while yanking her bags with both hand, “inside. The door, please?”

 

Grunting with the load, the not-quite-fit, not-so-young police officer staggered past Camille and into the house.

 

“Richard???” Camille called out and stopped in shock.

 

Inside, the cottage had been completely furnished — at least the rooms she could see. Comfortable seating in neutral (but not totally boring) colors and well-made tables still left an uncluttered feel. Egg-shell white walls blended with simple curtains in lighter pastel colors.

 

A number of pictures, paintings and photos, hung in the rooms and up the stairs, captured people living their lives — including a few she knew.

 

Camille slowly wandered through the main living area and dining room — replete with an old hardwood buffet — to the country kitchen with plaster walls, exposed maple beams, red-stained cabinets and a large, square eating and cooking table with six chairs. A door leading to the rear garden could be seen on the far wall as could the faces of two very familiar women — Catherine Bordey and Helen Poole — descending the rear stairs.

 

“Surprise! Welcome home, Camille!”

“Maman? What are you doing here?”

“You didn’t think I’d miss my daughter’s housewarming, did you?”

“This isn’t our —”

“Yes it is, Camille,” Richard confirmed.

“But-But-But how can we…?”

“Richard, do take Camille upstairs. Catherine and I will pull something together by the time your tour is done,” Helen suggested, struggling to hide her smile at Richard’s predicament.

“Camille? After you,” and with a tug to her elbow Richard got her moving again.

 

Counting backwards in his head from 100, the only man in the house patiently waited for the explosion. It arrived at 69 — at the top of the stairs and very near the first bedroom.

 

“You said we would pick together! We would find a place we BOTH wanted!”

“Camille, if you’ll calm down —”

“NO! We should have done this together!”

“But you like the house! You remarked on it every time we spoke. The agent said you asked for more pictures to —”

“I LOVE the house, Richard, but we CAN’T AFFORD IT!”

“Actually, we can.”

“What!? Did you suddenly get some big PROMOTION and leave the MET because they don’t _pay  _ _very  _ _well_!?!?”

 

She punctuated specific words with a finger stabbed into his bruising chest.

 

The pounding heartbeat in her ears didn’t hamper her ability to hear his reply because he said nothing, merely staring at her whilst she “caught up”.

 

“You left the Met?”

 

One nod and he crossed his arms across his chest. Ignoring her tightening stomach, Camille noticed he’d worn the causal rugby shirt she’d bought him during her last visit too long ago.

 

“You got a promotion?”

“Assistant Deputy Secretary for Economic Crime with a second to Strategy and Tactics for the National Crime Agency. Transferred in.”

“You got a raise?”

“Almost six figures.”

“No more deep cover work?”

“Not for me.”

 

That look he gave her meant there would be a meaningful discussion of _her_ deep cover protocol sooner rather than later.

 

“Don’t we have to live in England?”

“I kept my flat and sublet the third floor. My address will remain in England. We can overnight there or with my mother.”

“How will you get to work?”

 

At this point, one of her eyebrow’s rose and Camille’s arms crossed those beautiful breasts of hers. Richard had hoped to sneak a “Welcome Home” shag in — no such luck. They’d been separated nearly a year and neither tolerated the distance well.

 

“The Eurostar. Only 51 minutes from Calais to London. The position picks up half the fare.”

“What about taxes?”

“Your mother and mine know accountants here. One English; one French.”

 

Her defeated sigh meant they’d neared the end of this dust up.

 

“Why?”

“I wanted to surprise you and be spon-spon-spontaneous. You _loved_ this house!”

“Richard…”

 

Ignoring his exasperation at not getting credit for what she _usually_ yelled at him for, Camille folded into him like hot wax into a mold. Tears came and, frankly, Richard thought she’d spent most of their separation crying at one time or another. Smarter now than when he’d met her, he enfolded her in his arms and rode out the storm.

 

“Can we really afford it?”

“Yes, Camille. I’ve been saving for a bigger place.”

 

He’d taken over her finances when she proved incapable of explaining how she balanced her cheque account.

 

“The furniture — it’s nice.”

“From my flat in Croydon. We’ll add your things when the container arrives. Our mothers put up the pictures.”

“And my mother picked the curtains?”

 

Catherine missed her only daughter’s island send-off due to an “emergency” on Guadeloupe two days earlier. With Helen Poole as co-conspirator, they’d finished off the house and stocked the larder.

 

“When she arrived. Made some comment about my funereal taste in window dressings. My mother agreed with her.”

 

Reaching around her, Richard opened the door to the first bedroom. Big windows let in every ray of the afternoon sun. Pastel yellow walls and exposed beam work made a cozy impression. Helen Poole’s clothes were neatly stowed in the room’s walnut wardrobe; closet space lay behind a door cut to fit under the sloped roofline.

 

“The others are similar. Your mother’s next door.”

“Is one of them ours?”

“No, we’re downstairs.”

 

The tour led her past the shared bath, down the front stairs and into the adjoining study area.

 

“The pictures don’t tell how _big_ it is!”

“Between your mother and mine we won’t have to purchase much. In here —”

 

This time she traipsed in behind him to the master suite.

 

The room provided a sitting area, where Richard had placed the small settee he’d inherited from his grandmother, and more bedroom area than most hotel suites Camille frequented while undercover. A stunning French canopy bed was placed against the wall of windows, flanked by complementary bed stands with delicate lamps. In addition to two closets, two painted wardrobes faced each other from opposite walls. 

 

Two unexplained doors hid the final unexplored rooms. Camille gasped at the modernized en-suite with a super-jet tub, separate shower, the obligatory bidet and commode, a double sink vanity with plenty of counter space and in-wall shelving for towels and toiletries.

 

“I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“Are you crying again?”

“Yes. Does it upset you?”

“Not if I’m not at fault.”

 

To keep the peace he held her again, soothing her back while she fought the hiccups.

 

“What’s behind there?” she pointed to the final door.

“See for yourself.”

 

The final room lay empty but for the decor. Warm, creamy walls had been decorated with Beatrix Potter’s “Peter Rabbit” characters — all recreations of the original illustrations from the book. The walls behind the stick-ons were painted with backgrounds — Farmer McGregor’s garden, the cozy home of Peter and his family and the meadow beyond the farm. Three of the four walls sported bay windows that either Catherine or Helen had covered in gossamer thin sheer curtains.

 

“The train station is 30 minutes from the house with heavy traffic. They’re setting up Internet here so I can work from home. Cheaper, so they tell me. Less overtime. The property agent will be here tomorrow with the purchase contract.”

 

A quiet Camille worried him more than an explosive Camille; she’d said nothing since discovering the Nursery.

 

“I could do with a bite. You?”

 

A head nod was all he got for his trouble.

 

“Come on, then. I’m sure our mothers are waiting to pounce on you.”

 

Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, Richard led Camille back to the heart of the home: the kitchen, with its huge stone fireplace and wood-burning stove.

 

“What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful,” Camille choked up, laying her head on Richard’s shoulder. Behind him the last light of the day moved across the stone tile floor, setting off the orange in the cabinet hues. Sunlight and Camille were fading fast.

 

Quiet conversation and serving platters moved around the table, though Camille said and ate very little.

 

“Helen and I will clean up. You two must be exhausted. We’ll see you both in the morning.”

 

Tearful kisses met each mother from Camille. Richard frowned (having made a wrong emotional turn 10 or 12 of her mood switches ago and unwilling to delve in and get his arse hacked off). At least she hadn’t yelled at him since the “tour”. 

 

“You’re not working tomorrow?”

“I had vacation due from the Met.”

“Six weeks, knowing you,” Catherine teased as she cleared their plates from the table.

“No,” Helen corrected, “More like 17 months with overtime.” 

“You won’t be home that long, will you?” escaped out too quickly from the doe-eyed beauty.

“Separated almost a year and you’re already tired of me after half a day!”

“No! It’s — I have to report in four weeks.”

“Good, because that’s how long I’ll be on hols to get us settled.”

 

His last words got obliterated by Camille’s loud and uncontrolled yawn.

 

“And on that note, ladies,” Richard declared in his best commander’s voice, “Camille and I are going to sleep. Goodnight.”

“Catherine? How about some coffee and a bit of brandy as a nightcap?” Helen offered as she watched her son and his wife toddle off to bed.

“Cami told me you and I would get along,” the restaurateur chuckled.

“Sit yourself! I’ll be ‘Mum’.”

 

Bustling around had Richard’s new coffee maker burbling and the bottle of Drambuie from the buffet opened on the kitchen table to “breath”. The two women grabbed their filled beakers and moved into the adjoining study. As the ambient warmth from the cup soothed the mild stiffness in her hands, Catherine posed a question.

 

“Do you think Richard knows why she took the position?”

“You mean did she tell him? No, I don’t think so.”

“She came to England — what… Two months ago? They hadn’t seen each other in eight months.”

 

More sipping happened in the comfortable silence. In the distance, the moon rose over the woodlands, casting the trees and bushes in shimmering light.

 

“Do you have a preference?” Helen prodded mischievously.

“Of course! Twins. One of each.” Catherine answered.


End file.
